


Return to Crimson

by took_skye



Category: Crimson Peak (2015)
Genre: Blood, Bugs & Insects, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death In Dream, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Dead People, Dream Sex, F/M, Gen, Ghost Sex, Gothic, Hand Jobs, Haunted Houses, Haunting, Love Triangles, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on Tumblr, Possession, Psychic Abilities, Psychological Horror, Reincarnation, Serial Killers, Sibling Incest, Slow Romance, Smut, Thriller, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-22 22:25:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17068301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/took_skye/pseuds/took_skye
Summary: “They say the past is never dead. It’s not even past. Do you think that’s true?”More than a century after the horrific events of Allerdale Hall were discovered the Sharpe mansion has been rebuilt and put forth as a haunted hotel. When a young couple arrive for a long week’s stay the woman immediately realizes the former occupants are not gone and one may well live on as the hotel’s manager, Thomas Cutler.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You may consider this to be in the vein of both _Crimson Peak_ and _The Shining_ …at least, that’s the hope at the moment, haha!

Some things are meant to stay dead, but those are the things that never do. They have unfinished business. They return: reborn, rebuilt, resurrected. People mistake them for new, think their past is no longer at issue, but the past is always there. In the blood beneath skin, in the cracks of a foundation, in the memories of others. And when what separates past and present thins the two can collide in the most unexpected ways.

“Come on, this is gonna be fun!” Jon pulls her in.

She ignores him in favor of double-checking the service on her phone. “Oh yeah, nothing says fun like a week’s stay in a house where a buncha women were murdered.”

He set lips against her ear. “If it helps, I think some guys were murdered here too.”

“It does not.” She shifts away with a laugh before frowning out the window. Who brings back a place like this? Who turns it into some kind of tourist trap? Who goes to it?! …She does, apparently.

This is not her idea though, it’s Jon’s. Always adventurous, always up for a good scare and accompanying adrenaline rush, Jon. She loves him, but the man is far too excited by all this for her comfort. What does he expect? For his bed to levitate or a voice to scream out to him in the middle of the night? He has no idea what it’s like to truly brush against death.

“I can’t believe they actually managed to rebuild it! I mean, the place practically sank into the ground within months of the Sharpe murder-suicide…” Jon rolls down the window, sticks his head out as they pass under the arch proclaiming entrance to Allerdale Hall.

It is the same as it has been for centuries, rusted lettering making for a ghastly warning sign to guests. The car continues, unheeded, and soon bloody dust plums around the tires, into the car. According to Jon the land has been made stable, safe, with the building renovated to include all modern amenities (”there’s even wifi”), but as she gazes it looks much the same as in the original pictures…like Dracula’s castle.

Yet, she agreed to this. To come here. To spend nights here. She knowingly came to a haunted house, to a place where others were slaughtered. She knows what can happen, what’s likely to happen, but she lets them close in.

“Holy shit, that’s fucking awesome!” Jon declares as the car hits a puddle, splattering red.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re hoping to spot a body.”

He wipes gory mud from his arm with a smile. “Some say they never found them all, you know.”

“Great.” She rolls eyes with a smirk, checks her mobile again.

Out of the corner of her eyes she catches something faint, gray, and knows it’s already begun. Things from the past, things long gone, were coming to her. However, it’s not the thing - the whirling, pumping, machine - that holds her interest, it’s the man standing before it. A ghost of one with sunken eyes and holes wisp-ing blood. She straightens up in recognition: Sir Thomas Sharpe, last of his family to own this land, believed murderer of at least 5 individuals including his mother and sister. A man who, after failing to kill his latest wife and another, is said to have ultimately committed suicide. No being’s ever hurt her, she’s not sure they even can, but just knowing he’s here sends shivers over her entire body.

“We can’t stay here,” her voice shakes out.

Jon snorts. “Come on, don’t be such a baby, it’ll be fine. I’m here,” he pulls her in tight, reassuringly. “Just give it the night, yeah? If you hate it we’ll get a hotel in town tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.” She sighs, knowing it’s placation on both their parts. She’ll leave tomorrow and he’ll stay behind, regardless of how the night goes. She can’t understand how this is entertainment, he can’t understand how it can upset her so much.

The car crawls before the main entrance, stops as the driver pops the trunk. Jon takes a deep breath of the fresh air, admires the details kept in the renovations. She sniffs, smells rot, and looks for the deathly figure again, but he is gone.

“Ah, so glad to see you’ve made it before lunchtime!” His voice is pleasant, chipper; his tone exactly what a hotel manager’s should be. “Here let me help you.”

She turns with a smile before her heart stops as Sharpe stands in flesh and bone and blood before her.

He is alive.

He is breathing.

He is smiling at her. 

“Shall I take your bag?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up right after previous chapter.

“Miss, are you all right?” Severity sets into his face, looking all the more the mournful ghost’s she saw just moments before. It’s not those features - the cheekbones, the jawline, those lips - that hold her though. It’s his eyes. Bright, lively, blue…such a startling difference from the black of old photos and golden-gray of the specter.

She jumps, steps back. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t mind her, she’s just spooked,” Jon laughs, but even he’s thrown when he turns to the man. “Holy shit, you look just like him.”

The manager’s brows furrow a fraction, then his face breaks into a smile. “You mean Sharpe? Yes, I imagine that’s part of the reason I got the job.” He chuckles, Jon joins. “Forgive me…I’m Thomas Cutler, the hotel’s manager.” He extends a hand.

Jon shakes it. “I’m Jon, Jon Whittney. This is Elise Flynn.”

“Ellie,” she finds her voice to correct. “Are you…related?”

“Not that I’m aware.” Tom didn’t care to check either. “If you like I can have someone take your bags to your room while you join the others for lunch.” He lifts Jon’s bags. 

Jon takes Ellie’s. “There are others?”

Thomas smiles. “Two other couples, yes.”

“See, told you this wasn’t a weird pick for a vacation,” Jon looks back to Ellie. “There’s even other couples here.”

“That just means others share your bizarre sense of romance,” she counters, stuffing her phone away after another check as the men pleasantly chat.

Just a foot crosses the threshold and the metallic scent of blood strikes. The air stills, thickens, so that her eyes sting. Ellie wonders if it’s her own blood or those of years past that drowns her nostrils. She can sense a heaviness press into her, a fighting back of the house itself, as a lullaby begins. _…Beware…_ Hands gently take her arm at elbow and hand, securing her in this world.

“Miss Flynn?” Thomas holds her in the present; her eyes flutter and tears release. “Would you care to sit down?” The offer comes with a careful guiding to the nearest overstuffed chair. He looks to the bellman. “Get some waters, then take their things upstairs, please.” He glances to Jon. “Does she have any medical conditions?”

“Nah,” Jon takes a sip of one of the waters before setting it aside. “Not unless mild anxiety counts.”

The other frowns deeply; near fainting hardly seems to qualify as ‘mild’. He watches as she fixates on the grand portraits of the Sharpe family, then something in the center of the main lounge…the piano, perhaps?

“Come on, Ellie, you’re alright…” Jon encourages, offering her the other bottle. This is so unlike her - she may gripe, get tense or skittish in certain circumstances, but not like this. She isn’t a fainter, doesn’t drift off, isn’t so easily and quickly overwhelmed.

“Ellie?” Thomas is tentative in using her first name, but when her eyes flick to him he smiles. More as the eyes brighten, return to life, and she begins to straighten up.

The music is the last to fade as she latches into the blue eyes of the living. “I…I’m fine.” Ellie pushes Jon’s offer of water away.

“And to think you used to write about serial killers,” Jon cracks, hoping to lighten the mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not saying how much of what Ellie experiences is real vs in her own head…that would ruin too many surprises, lol!


	3. Chapter 3

She is grateful for the fresh air and sun of the opened porch; the only part of the reconstruction that’s allowed entrance to the present. Looking out across the grounds she can finally see, feel, the beauty of Allerdale Hall. Cut cleanly in half by crimson road the well-manicured lawn of lush green dips down to brick walls and wrought iron gate. Trees are scarce, but those around fight on to thrive and blow their leaves like summer snow.

“You really wrote about serial killers? What was that like?” Rachel, the petite end of an odd couple, leans back and crosses legs already sure of the answer. “Probably more frightening than this old place.”

“Yes and no.” Ellie hates that Jon made a joke of her reaction to entering the mansion even if in attempt to ingratiate them with the other couples. “Serial killers are dangerous, sure, but…they’re also somewhat pathetic.”

Rachel’s oversized husband, Harold, guffaws. “Don’t let 'em hear you say that.”

“When you look at their pasts, their childhood and such, it’s sad. Often disturbed, abused, without any help for their issues…” she shrugs, but blank looks say she has to finish the thought. “It’s no wonder they turn that pain into violent rage.”

Michael is an elder gentleman with graying hair even as his eyes remain keen. “And what of the Sharpes? Have you any opinion on them?”

Jon chimes in. “She thinks they worked together.”

“Well, Lady Sharpe must’ve known,” Michael concurs. “Must’ve cared for those poor women as he poisoned them.”

“Poisoning is more common with women…” The world dulls as Ellie watches the forming figure. He looks in from outside, eyes mournful and face smoking blood. She hears conversations, arguments, in the distance as Sir Sharpe pulls her in. She tries to listen without hearing, to understand what it is he wants. The gold of his eyes blaze, he opens his mouth to speak and her heart begins to pound in anticipation…

“How is everyone?” Ellie gasps so sharply she squeaks, clutches her chest with a jump-turn to Thomas. “Sorry,” he frowns, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine,” she dismisses even as Jon teases the manager about trying to scare her to death for the business. “No, Jon, it’s fine.”

Thomas’ frown lifts to embarrassed smile. "It does seem as if I have a nasty habit of sneaking up on you, Miss Flynn.”

Her attempt to argue that it’s just her, the place, are drowned by Harold’s boisterousness. “Well, what good’s staying at a haunted mansion without a proper scare now and again, am I right?” He nods in agreement with himself. “So, Cutler, we’re all here now. All eaten. How about that tour we were promised?”

“Certainly, sir…if everyone else is amendable.”


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a subtle look from Thomas that tells Ellie to decline the tour. That “with any luck, we may see evidence of past occupants” is a promise of unnerving events. Things she may be able to cope with later, but not now. Not with the house still so new and hostile.

Jon offers to stay behind with her, but she insists he go. “It’s half the reason you came…go, have fun, you can tell me all about it after…I’ll just be here, enjoying the scenery, checking my phone…You know me, I can entertain myself.” In the end Jon relents with a promise to make it up to her. Ellie only smiles, wishes him well, and settles back into her chair on the porch.

Alone she closes her eyes, tries to bring back the memory of Sharpe - faded form, golden eyes, wisps of blood, mouth opening. Why did he want to speak to her? What had he wanted to say? She focuses on the feel of him; guilt, despair, regret, betrayal, loss, the understanding of love too late.

“Thomas…” she calls softly; hesitant, but determined. She won’t last the night if she doesn’t at least face him, at least try. “Sharpe, can you hear me?” Ellie turns her palm up, fingers spread. “If you can hear me, touch my hand.”

The brush is soft, tickles so she must make the effort not to curl fingers shut. Eyes open to see not a ghostly hand, but an insect. A hideous beauty of a moth with breathing black wings and body. It crawls and the feel causes her to shudder. The moth flies off. Her eyes follow to find hundreds, filling the room as if sentries. She stands, slow.

“You’re not Thomas.” The piano keys up a lullaby from within the house, but she refuses to be intimidated this time. With a deep breath she turns, heads from the light to the dark, follows the music. The moths fade.

Allerdale Hall fights her steps, smothers her with rot and heat. Ellie breathes deep and determined, crosses the lobby with Sharpe portraits staring down, until she reaches the piano. The restored antique is as real as the ghastly figure playing it. Shades of black from head to toe, skeletal fingers moving with soft, vicious, precision.

Ellie sees the blackened ring upon the woman’s figure, feels the tightening of her gut as she plays with her own ring. “Lucille.” The music stops. The figure turns, shows its caved-in head and coal-black eyes. It stares and stares and stares until Ellie takes a step back. “Where’s Thomas?”

Lucille responds in an ear-splitting pitch of murderous rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucille’s appearance here was actually a bit of a surprise, but a pleasant one in a strange way. ^_^


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up after the last chapter, but even I’m not sure how long - maybe an hour or so?

Ellie wakes to Chopsticks; in a daze she sees Jon superimposed over the rotting black figure that played prior. It’s a jarring contrast as the other guests chuckle and chatter happily around the piano. Her instinct is to order them to stop. Order them all away from danger. He should not sit where the ghastly figure sits, should not play where Lucille does. She can’t stand the sight of it, it makes her ill.

Thomas notes her first, heads over with a smile. He’s yet to put his finger on it, but something about Ellie fascinates him. The strange mix of hard logic and total belief, tough talk and sensitive thoughts. And something beyond that. It draws him in unlike anything else…She draws him in unlike anyone else.

“Greetings, Ellie.” He watches her sit up from the couch, confusion set on her face. “I’m glad to see you’ve gotten some rest from your travels,” his tone is gentle and kind, smile bordering on excitedly hopeful. More so when she looks up at him.

Is that what happened? She turns back to the piano crowd, sees only Jon seated and playing. Yes, it must’ve. She must’ve gone inside to rest, she must’ve had a nightmare clinging to her as she woke. It was all a dream. Tired and stressed, it’s no wonder she dreamed of Lady Sharpe in such a horrifying form. Perhaps going off the medication was a mistake.

“Would you like to go for a walk? A tour, if you will…though slightly less intense.”

She blinks up to the hotel manager, then it registers. “Sure.” She smiles and his face lights up as he offers his hand. Ellie almost giggles at how easily he pulls her up; sighs as she feels…safe. “I probably should get used to the place, at least enough to last the night.”

Concern sets in. “What about the rest of the nights?”

“I’m not sure I’m made for more than one,” she confesses, face falling with his. The piano stops abruptly and Ellie moves closer, grips Thomas’ hand, certain the hideous Lucille has returned to prove herself all too real.

“Hey!” Jon calls out. “You tryin’ to steal my girl?”

It’s only then both notice their hands still together, fingers entwined. Ellie jumps back, Thomas laughs nervously as he tucks hands behind him. “Only for an abridged tour, Jon.”

“I’m just messin’ with you, don’t worry.” Jon laughs, smiles at Ellie. “Go, have fun, maybe it’ll help with the stay, right?”

“Right,” Ellie nods.

“Shall we then?” Thomas offers, directing her to the grand staircase on the left.

“Why certainly, Sir.” She puts on her best playfully posh voice.

The lightness of Thomas’ heart comes through in his laugh.


	6. Chapter 6

Her eyes examine the shark’s teeth archways, the imposing forest of wooden doors, as they wander shadowed halls. The restoration is truly accurate throughout. Curiosity drives her desire to touch, to feel for splinters and prick fingers on metal. Wariness holds her back. She half-listens as Thomas speaks of the history of the house, of the murders, of all those things she researched before arriving.

He stops, goes quiet. “Now would normally be when you heard a scream.”

“What?” Ellie half-smiles in confusion.

“A scream, presumably of a past victim.” He smiles. “Would you like to see how it works?”

“How the scream works?”

Pulling out his phone Thomas moves closer. “Here…look…”

Ellie leans in as he opens an app, scrolls a list of numbered house locations. He hits Hall 5, it opens to another list: Lights, Scream, Moan, Door (1, 2, 3…). He hits “Scream” and there’s a wail that makes its way down the hall so convincingly she flinches in closer. Thomas goes back and she spots a section labelled Piano.

“Piano? You can make it play?”

“Oh yes, with a number of different options. Guests seem to love the fright of its sudden playing of a lullaby after dinner.”

“Have you…used it today?”

“No, not yet.” Thomas smiles faintly in the face of Ellie’s disappointment. “But I will tonight. Other things are on timers, as well.” His eyes go to hers. “I can turn them off in your room, if you wish.”

“Thank you.” It’s entirely possible she’ll run screaming in terror if anything happens tonight. “…The owners of this place really went all out, didn’t they? I mean,” she breaths a laugh. “An app and everything.”

Thomas’ face tints red. “The app is mine, actually. They wired the place for such things, of course, but they had a remote. I thought, perhaps, that would be too suspicious. So I made an app instead.” His smile struggles in his modesty. “No one suspects a disinterested employee on their phone, do they?”

As someone barely able to work an Instagram account Ellie’s beyond impressed. “That’s amazing.” The urge to play with it, see what happens, has her grinning…almost squirming.

“Stay.”

“What?”

“I wish you would stay.” Nerves cause Thomas’ voice to shake. “Here, at the hotel.”

“Why?” She’s a complete burden, a person wholly unappreciative of the experience. “I’m sure things will be easier if I go.”

“Perhaps.” A smile flits across his lips. “But not more pleasurable.”

She hears Sir Thomas as much as she does Thomas; she sees them both in the earnest, hopeful, eyes of the man before her. Something in him pulls her as strongly as the house pushes. Her hand goes to his arm in comfort and gratitude, she smiles, and he leans. Heat and cold run through her body, her heart kicks up and she shivers.

There is something in Thomas that is not under his own control. There has to be; he doesn’t do this. He doesn’t pursue guests and certainly not women who were with another. He doesn’t get flustered; yet his hand shakes as it brushes her cheek.

His breath is hot, inviting, across her lips. Ellie moves to close the gap —

**_BOOM!!_**

It sounds like violent rage - the house itself reacting in displeasure to what it sees - throwing both man and woman into a frightful leap apart. Ellie rests against the wall, clutching her chest as if her heart might bust out. Thomas grabs up his dropped mobile then runs hands through his hair.

“Are you all right?” Thomas asks the moment his breath returns. Ellie shakes, but nods. “I don’t imagine that’s going to help convince you to stay,” he attempts a joke, eyes checking in with her between glances for the culprit of the terrifying noise.

Ellie smiles, but he’s right. She only wants to leave more. She can feel…It. Whatever it is that burst into their moment, a moment it did not want to happen. Does not, never wants, to happen. “Down there,” she points to a thrown-open and splintered door behind Thomas.

“Huh.”

That’s the door to the Sharpe nursery. One of the few rooms in which the original remained intact; one of the few rooms that, for the most part, remains locked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oor Thomas, cockblocked by his own hotel, hahaha!


	7. Chapter 7

It’s not a scream, it’s a screech. Something more solid than the woman from Thomas’ app, something less human than a full-grown man. It should compel her to freeze or run off, but instead Ellie charges into the nursery. She doesn’t think about the house, its history. She doesn’t think about Sir Thomas at the patio window or Lady Lucille on the piano. She doesn’t even notice the big, black, moths that fly out as she rushes in.

“Thomas?!” Heart pounds and eyes dart for danger, for a threat that could make the man shriek. She only sees him as he begins to melt from shaking to sheepish. His face goes red, he covers his eyes as he starts to chuckle. “What? What is it?”

“Blake.”

She creeps farther into the room, eyes narrowing. “Blake?” Who the hell’s Blake? And why can’t she see him when Thomas can? Are there other ghosts in the house, victims not recorded?

With continued embarrassment Thomas takes a stride, bends under an ancient desk, and scoops something off the floor. “Come on, you little bugger…” he teases, coos, as he lifts the kitten. “Ellie, meet Blake,” he smooths out fur matted with dust and bits of bug. “Blake, meet Ellie.” It mews, wriggles about until freed onto a table filled with odds and ends - books, papers, wooden toys in display boxes.

Ellie’s lit up face dims in puzzlement. “You said this room was locked.”

“Yes, which is why I’m still unsure how it opened.” He know it can’t have been the cat.

“So…how did Blake get in?”

Thomas’ face falls all the more; in thought as much as worry. He takes a deep breath. “If I…confess something, do you promise it won’t be the reason for your leaving?”

“I can promise, if you don’t, it’ll be the reason I leave.” Even the suggestion he knows something gives her shivers. Not because he might be holding back, but because he might confirm her suspicions. She can’t have that possibility dangled, then withdrawn.

He collects the cat once again, pets it to comfort himself. “The house breathes in the wind, bleeds in the rain and snow, and faucets run red when first turned on. I attribute all this to its structure, to the land, but other things…Shuttered windows and doors swing open, the elevator moves on its own, the piano does the same.” He sighs, looks at the cat, then back into her eyes. “That’s why the toys are locked up, they would play in the middle of the night. People couldn’t get any sleep…” Thomas’s face grows wistful. “I couldn’t get any sleep.”

She lets it in, the truth, the acknowledgement that, maybe, she’s not just imaging things or going crazy. “Why do you still work here?”

Lips turn up into a smile, spread to genuine grin. “As much as it can unsettle me this house also feels…comforting. Familiar. Like I know it…or it knows me. I seem to be the only one able to manage it.” It wasn’t a brag, but a simple truth. There was high turnover for the staff here, only he held strong from day one of its opening.

They look at each other in silence, unsure what to say or do next. An urge wells up in Ellie to ask, beg, Thomas to leave though she cannot place her finger on why. They only just met, why the connection? Why does the thought of leaving without him cinch her stomach in terror as much as the thought of staying here?

Thomas’ focus remains on Ellie as the kitten slips out his hands to escape the nursery and down the dark hall. He doesn’t notice moths overhead whose wings breathe in threat or cherubs on ancient walls behind start to bleed…Ellie doesn’t either.

She notices only Thomas - his eyes, earnestly blue, and the deep pink of his lips. She notices the slight roughness of his hand as it takes hers, his height as he moves closer. She watches tongue flick out across his lips before teeth catch hold of the bottom set in insecurity. She feels her heart stutter and the world around her slow.

“They say the past is never dead. It’s not even past. Do you think that’s true?” He cannot find other words to describe this feeling; it is not quite déjà vu because it’s neither begun nor ended. It’s a connection he can’t fathom or ignore…just like the one he has with the house.

“Yes.” It’s an answer to his question as much as his desire. Her desire. This time no door or animal or undead thing can stop it; this time Ellie makes the move, closes the gap…

His once held breath fills her mouth, lips quiver against hers in the rush of connection. True connection, beyond the physical into something else. He holds onto her hand tight as if worried she may take flight without him. Ellie sighs as his free hand cups her cheek, moves in closer to set a hand over his heart. It races with hers and, as his tongue brushes along her lips, she sighs her pleasure and opens to it.

They float in the kiss, tongues dancing and bodies whirling until Ellie’s stopped by the table. Papers flutter, toys clank to life, but they carry on. She wraps arms around his neck, he takes her waist and hair. She parts thighs, he stands between them. They never let the kiss end, fearful of what happens once it does.

But it does. In the ding of Ellie’s phone, their lips finally part. They pant in time, eyes remain locked, souls still connected, until the ding comes again. Her eyes drop to check:

_Do I need to send a search party? ;-)_

Her sigh should be one of guilt, of regret for what she’s just done, but instead it’s disappointment. The real world calls, time to return to the present.

“I’m sorry.” Thomas knows, he steps back and regrets.

Ellie takes a deep breath, slinks out the nursery first. “I’m not.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is intentionally disorienting for readers, further explanation is in the end notes.

Nearly the moment they return to the group Thomas excuses himself under the guise of work elsewhere. It’s not a lie, there’s always work to be done for this hotel, but he knows it can wait. He’s hiding. From Ellie, from Jon, from himself. He’s hiding from something he’s not even sure of…a feeling he’s never felt before. A connection that disallows him a comfortable sleep now.

The house creeks, groans, and he can’t help think its scolding him. _You shouldn’t be thinking about her! I’m your priority! I’m the one giving you what you need!_

He uses the image of peaceful butterfly wings to set a slow inhale and exhale pattern. Something flutters in the attic-room. “Fuck,” he grumbles, switching sides again, debating if he should take a sleep aid.

* * *

Ellie pops the pills into her mouth, swallows them down with a gulp of water, and plugs her mobile in. She feels the guilt now. She feels it in Jon’s doting presence as he proudly clears the crimson from the pipes before she washes up and lets her pick what to put on TV. He’s trying so hard to be the good boyfriend, to keep her comfortable and appease her…but is that all it is? Appeasing?

She doesn’t want to know if it’s all just to keep her here. It’s pointless; she can’t stay, this place hates her. She can feel it trying to suffocate her, drive her away, drive her mad. A fight with Jon will only make things all the worse.

As Jon exits the bathroom she curls up, fakes a deep sleep. Perhaps it’s cowardly, but she hasn’t the energy to face any of it. Not right now.

* * *

He can feel them, faintly, like a breeze on the back of his neck. They hate him. They hate what he’s done and what he never did. They hate his weakness nearly as much as he does. The only thing they may hate more is Her.

The beauty with hair as black as her heart, the one he both clings to and wishes to flee from. But that is impossible. He owes her so much, too much, and so is bound to her - body and soul and sin. Even as he loves another…

* * *

She knows this is her room, but can’t recall being here before. She recalls him though. The beautiful boy with the sad face before her; he can never keep his smile for very long. He feels too much; guilt seeps into his bones as the clay does this house. Still, he is hers and so she is gentle.

“Don’t worry, my love…” She half-coos with a stroke to his face, a gentle peck to his cheek. She needs him with her, she needs him to love her or this has all been for naught.

* * *

Thomas’ lashes flutter under her touch. His first love, the only love he’s ever known. His breath keeps shallow as her lips work to his, then he inhales the bloody scent of her as their lips meet. He returns the kiss fully, passionately, but with eyes closed.

He hears the fluttering of the moths above and cannot believe this is what he, they, have become.

* * *

There is something wrong with this, the voice in the back of Ellie’s mind notes. She knows this, but can do nothing to stop it. Her body is not her own and, as raven’s hair billows out from its pins, she knows exactly whose it is. She is not herself, Thomas is not Thomas. They are the Sharpes.

She thinks to speak, to tell or warn, but all that comes out is a shivered “Thomas“ as throat is exposed to his lips…his teeth…his tongue.

* * *

It’s muscle memory, it’s from doing this a thousand times, that he strips away her layers. Or, at least, the ones she allows him to. Lucille will always keep him, protect him, from certain things. She will not allow even him to witness all the things their parents had done to her - the scars they’d left behind. He can feel them though, if he’s clever enough.

His tongue licks the burn mark at the curvature of her neck and, hearing her name on his lips, his blood rushes. This is the least he can do for her; give her a modicum of pleasure for all the pains she took for him. He pulls her closer, mouth seizes more flesh as fingers explore the faint beginnings and ends of lashes healed across her shoulder.

* * *

Moths beat their wings furiously, in time with her heart, and the house shudders with her body as strong hands gather and tunnel under her gown. Her hands move to undo trousers, slip between fabric and flesh. He’s already hard, immediately moves into her first stroke with a whimper of a moan.

“Tell me you love me, Thomas.”

* * *

“Oh…Lucille…” He moans from arousal and guilt equally. He loves her so, but not as he once did. The love he had, the one she requires, now belongs to another. He delays in a brushing of damp curls between her thighs.

“Thomas, tell me.” She’s insistent, wrapping arm around his neck, digging nails in slightly, to keep him to her. Her mouth gnaws across shoulder, she presses the wet heat of her cunt into his hand. “I love you.”

He groans, lets fingers slicken between her folds. “I love you.”

* * *

The feel of his fingers grazing her clit, teasing her entrance, remain with the buzzing arousal of her entire body…but Ellie is no longer the macabre murderess. In too-short a time she no longer feels pleasure. Her stomach seizes, mouth fills with the taste of copper, and all energy is sucked from her by the house itself.

Oh god…she knows who she is now. She is Edith. She is dying as, before her, Thomas and Lucille share the embrace she was just a part of. Before she’s able to even make a sound Lucille’s at her. Wild, vicious, smug as she declares her true self.

Ellie begs for freedom from the dream, the memory; begs that each time Lucille grabs at the ring, attempts to tug it off, the pain will wake her. Yet she’s kept under this new trick of the house. This new trick of the dead.

“Don’t!” Thomas cries out, begs. “There’s someone at the door!”

The woman begins to rot, succumbs to a necrosis of the soul, as she goes as black as she’d been at the piano. “THIS HOUSE IS MINE!!” Bones snap Ellie’s to possess the ring, then shove with unnatural strength.

Black moths rain up, strike her face and tangle in her hair, as she plummets. Not even the leg-shattering strike of the banister wakes her. She sees already bloodied floor fly at her and wonders…if you die in a dream, do you really die in life as urban legend claims?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas and Ellie share a dream in which they are Sir Thomas and Lucille/Edith respectively…Thomas doesn’t really get he’s dreaming, but Ellie does. The dream is also a memory of the house, its ghosts, and (perhaps) past lives


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one may be disorienting as well, but know that it’s intentional and not a dream...Further explanation can be found after the chapter.

Ellie wakes to the floor of her dreams still rushing forward before an arm slips around her waist. Heart racing beyond thought she instinctively clutches, nails digging in. Tears slip out from closed eyes as she pants, shakes, against her savior’s chest. She feels the other arm slip around and gasps, shudders, at the latest flood of adrenaline.

“Shh, you’re all right,” he mutters against her ear, arms tensing to reassure. “I’ve got you, just breathe.”

The ghost lingers in his voice, unsettles and secures both. Tipping her head back she times deep breaths with his; listens to his exhales float past her ear, feels the hammering of his heart with hers. They are alive, they are not their dreams. His hold relaxes a fraction, but she hangs on. She cannot fathom how she got here or how he caught her in time, but is terrified of where letting go will leave her.

“Step with me, carefully,” he instructs, to which she looks down.

“Oh god!” Only in seeing it does Ellie feel it. Crimson, cold and slippery, the viscous fluid coats her feet, soaks into the bottom of pajamas. She’s standing in the middle of a crime scene photo, a massacre. The sudden knowledge causes her to slip.

“It’s a burst pipe.” Thomas walks her back, slow and steady. It bubbles up from the depths of a hole and creeps across floorboards. He’s covered - shoes, pants, hands, shirt - and it spreads onto her arms, hands, and stomach. “It’s just the clay.”

Allerdale’s history, its life source, vomits itself all over them. She thinks of those found in the vats, watches as a single moth seems birthed from the ooze only to drag itself an inch before death takes it back. She thinks of the beastly black Lucille as the piano’s lullaby enters her consciousness and a tension blooms in her chest. “I have to get out of here.”

“Come on, we’ll get you cleaned up.” He goes to walk her farther back, but she seems rooted to the spot.

“I can’t…” She’s too far gone to move, the house has her. “Please…Please Thomas.” Voices creep in and out of her ear, arguing, pleading, screaming in rage and violence. “I can’t…” She glances up, finds a cracked railing, and the house groans. “I can’t stay here…” her voice is fading. A gurgle brings her back to the floor and she sees it - the top of a head. Crushed in, black, coming out just as the moth had…it continues out, dripping red as it rises off the floor…

“Ellie…” He can feel her slipping away, doesn’t dare let her go, as her mouth hangs open, eyes wide, seeing something he can’t.

Somewhere he calls for her, far off and faint, but she can’t reach him. She can’t pick through the past and her mind and the thing’s silent screams.

Thomas moves to block her view, takes her face in strong hands with a commanding look. “Ellie!” The voice is the slap that frees her, she looks up and directly into his eyes. He’s not Sharpe, even with the similarly mournful look. “Do you know where you are?”

“Allerdale Hall…” she takes a deep breath. “The hotel.”

“Who are you?”

“Elise Flynn…Ellie.” Heat begins to creep across her face. “And you think I’m crazy.” She knows it. Of course he does, how could he not?

Fingers caress face, spread clay, before he pulls back. “I think you should go.”

Something in the directness stuns and breaks her heart. It shouldn’t; she shouldn’t care. He’s right and not the man she should worry about, but… “Can’t have your guests going mad in the hotel, right?” It's every relationship, friendship, all over again. Of course he can’t put up with her, Jon barely can.

“I think something about this place is causing you a great deal of stress…pain even,” Thomas states directly, sympathetically, as he walks her towards the front desk. “Whatever happens in this hotel…” he grabs a bottle of cold water for her. “It has a stronger affect on you. I don’t know why, but…Ellie…” his face falls. “It does.”

She looks down, watches the bloody-clay thin and tint the sweat on the bottle. In a panic she sets it back on the desk. “…I have to leave.”

He nods, goes to make a call. “Hello, this is Thomas Cutler at Allerdale…yes…please, thank you…” he smiles at the voice on the other end, then more as another comes to the phone. “Hi, Bill, I was wondering if you had a room open there…” Thomas’ smile reaches Ellie, but she only looks down.

The clay’s already caked to her sleepwear, she picks at it some, then gives up. She looks like such a foolish child standing there, tear-streaked and dirty, crying to go home…how humiliating. Perhaps she should have let the thing in the floor take her. The click of the phone on the receiver brings her thoughts and eyes back to Thomas. A patiently un-doubting Thomas.

“There’s a spare room at the hotel in town, I’ve set you up there,” he smiles gently, before a reminder makes it fade. “You and Jon, I mean, of course.”

“He’ll want to stay…he can stay.”

A wicked part of him is glad for the words, but he stays professional. “I’m sure you two can work that out together. In the meantime, the hotel is sending a car and we can make sure your things are packed to send along once Jon is up…unless you’d like them now, of course.”

Ellie blinks back tears with a shake of her head. “No, I…I just want to leave.”

“Very well.” He takes her hand as it rests on the counter. “If you like you can sit out on the patio.” Thumb runs across her fingers, crimson exchanges. “I can find you toiletries, some cloths to clean up.” His smile is soft, without judgment. “Perhaps something to change into once you get there as well.”

She nods, feeling safe rather than pitied.

He nods, wishing he could follow her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify: Ellie and Thomas can both see the clay coming up from the hotel floor, but only Ellie can see and hear the rest. Don’t worry though, this is obviously not the end of Ellie’s stay at Allerdale...I’m just not telling you how she gets brought back, hahaha! ;-)


	10. Chapter 10

Clean, swaddled in soft pajamas and terry-cloth robe, she watches the sky bleed into the morning from her suite. For the first time in what feels like forever Ellie’s neither tense nor worried. She doesn’t think about Allerdale Hall, its history, or the dead. She thinks about Thomas…not Sharpe, Cutler.

He’s sweet, so much so she feels guilty putting him through this, through her. There’s no way he gets paid enough to handle some hysterical American on top of everything else. She thinks on his kindness and those earnest eyes. She thinks on the calm of his voice, the safety of his hands. Ellie thinks on the taste of his lips…

A foot slips to the floor as she sits in the sill, hands move to her lap. Eyes close as she focuses on the memory. The faint roughness of his hands, the sureness in his hold. The smooth brush of his lips in the nursery, then the dizzying passion that followed. Fingers curl against sex remembering his curling in her hair, the smell of him so close, the taste of his mouth, the way his tongue danced with hers…

The knock pulls Ellie away from herself and up to the door. She opens it to a surprise she shouldn’t have. “Jon!”

“Hey babe!” He rolls in her bag, carries his with the other hand. “Heard you had a moment straight outta _The Shining_ , huh?” He laughs; her smile’s forced out. “It was cleaned up by the time I woke, never woulda guessed, but Cutler said it was real horror show.”

“Like the Johnny Depp scene in _The Nightmare on Elm Street_.”

“Awesome,” Jon chuckles, grins. “But, hey…You look great now, all scrubbed up in a plush bathrobe. Bet you smell great too.” Ellie smiles, turns a touch red, and he grins all the more. “You do, don’t you! Lemme smell!!” He drops his bag, grabs her about the waist so that she laughs. Jon playfully grunts as he buries nose into hair and neck. “Mmmm…yeah, that shampoo smells amazing.”

Ellie finally breaks free, stepping back slightly with smile intact. “I think it’s a special blend from the spa or something.”

“The spa?” He smirks. “Indulging a little while on vacation, are we?”

“Oh no, I…” maybe he doesn’t mean anything, but Ellie immediately worries about their budget. “Thomas set it up for me, free of charge.”

“Thomas? You mean Cutler?”

“Yeah.”

“You know he’s gotta thing for you, right?” Jon puts bags on the bed bench. “The way he looks at you, like he’s mesmerized or something.”

“Don’t be a jerk,” she roll eyes, crosses arms. “He’s just being nice.”

“Sure he is,” he smirks. “Poor guy, doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“That you’re mine.” His arms wrap from behind, one around her waist the other her chest. “All mine.”

Something in the touch feels wrong, makes her tense. “Right.” Of course; it’s nothing to do with her track record, with who she is.

“Look, can we forget about the hotel manager and just enjoy this little…vacation from our vacation?”

Again the smile must be forced. “Sure, yeah, let’s…just enjoy now that I can finally relax.” Her smile turns genuine at the thought.

“Exactly!” He gives her a deep kiss, one she has to work herself into until he pulls back. “So, I wasn’t sure what to grab, but I think I got enough for the night.”

“You’re gonna go back.” It’s almost a relief.

“Well, we both are.”

“Wh-what do you mean? Jon, I’m…I can’t go back.”

“Look, Ellie, I get that last night spooked you, really, I do, but this is getting ridiculous.” At first he thought it cute, he liked playing the strapping protector to her shaking meekness, the one keeping things chipper as she fell to anxious sarcasm, but it grew increasingly frustrating over time.

She takes a deep breath, preparing for the all too familiar fight about to come. “Jon…can we just…not do this?”

“When are you gonna grow out of being scared of stupid haunted house shit? I mean…You’ve been to crime scenes -”

“Jon…”

“…Interviewed serial killers!”

“Jon!”

“I mean, fuck, Ellie, your father -”

“I don’t wanna talk about this!” Her patience is worn out, it’s too much to handle what’s in her head and him both. “I _told_ you I didn’t want to come here! I _TOLD_ you my worries and you fucking disregarded them! Laughed them off! Like fucking always!”

“Because your worries are _always_ laughable!”

There’s nothing conscious about the act, it’s pure rage that shoves him hard enough he stumbles back a few steps. “Get out!” She’s sick of it. Sick of people thinking her foolish or crazy or dangerous. “Get out! Get the fuck out!” Sick of seeing things that aren’t there, of having the past so present she can’t imagine a future most of the time. “GET OUT JONATHAN GET OUT!!!

He hits the door with his back, grabs her arms as she continues to shove and hit his chest. “KNOCK IT OFF!”

“ **FUCK YOU!!** ” She twists out and slaps him so hard his head’s thrown to the side. Without waiting, without caring, she storms back to his bag, brings it close enough to throw at him. “Get the fuck out, Jon.” Because she didn’t want to see how much worse this could get…

* * *

…The sun is setting when she again wakes to a knock at the door. This time Ellie moves slow, sleep and disinterest and dread making her sluggish. The carpet feels like quicksand, the air mud, the door that of a sarcophagus…the person on the either side hoping to free the dead…

Bolt. Lock. Door handle. Door.

Any smile Thomas had is wiped from his face in taking in the room. “My god…” Clothes everywhere, bed stripped, a chair knocked over. His eyes fly to Ellie’s, puffy and bloodshot… “Ellie…”

…Shock turns to confusion turns to horror…

“You’re bleeding.”


	11. Chapter 11

He rights the chair, she sits and watches. Without hesitation he discards trash, remakes bed, folds clothing. Thomas collects undergarments and pill bottles with the same determined indifference as he does towels and shattered remote. He does this all without word, unsure what to say without scolding, pitying, offending…

Ellie thinks to speak, to explain, but there’s nothing left in her to do so. No drive to open up, no words to be found. She’s not angry anymore; she’s everything else. Exhausted, depressed, ashamed. She’s desirous and raw and terrified she’ll make him run. She’s too much to handle…tears threaten as he settles in the chair opposite hers.

They watch each other.

The silence grows; it spreads through the room, down the halls, curls up into elevators and stairwells, filling up the hotel. It starts to drown them, making breathing hard and bodies unsteady.

“Do you wish to talk?” Thomas offers, voice shaking out an octave deeper than it ought to.

She shakes hair into her face, focuses on inspecting the cloth over her arm. “I can’t.” It’s bloodied, but dry; arm smeared, but not active.

“What do you want?”

Eyes go into his. “Stay…”

“I can see if Bill has a spare room.” Thunder rolls in a warning.

She ignores it. “That’s not what I mean.”

The room lights up with the oncoming storm. “…Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She stands, the outside breaks into sheets of rain.

He shifts back, eyes darkening with the sky.

Her eyes spark up in flashes.

“I don’t wanna talk…”

She approaches with primeval seduction.

“…I don’t wanna think…”

Thunder cracks as she slips legs around to kneel over him. “I want you to make me forget.”

“What?”

“Everything.” Allerdale Hall, Jon, the Sharpes, her father, herself…all those ghosts haunting her. She leans down, brushes lips against his. “Please, Thomas…” Hair curtains them, blocks out the world, as she clings to his shoulders. “Please.”

His mouth meets hers, breath warming lips into a shiver. Hands on armrests turn into her, hold along ribs as she sighs out relief then pleasure. Her tongue dives in search of its old dance partner, finds the erotic steps from the nursery picked up without hesitation.

A hand goes for the tie of her robe, undoes it easily, before she works it off. They bump lips, noses, letting out breathy laughs between heavy groans. Ellie leans onto him, moans with the thunder as his mouth takes breast through shirt. “…Thomas…” First trickles slicken cunt, dampen bottoms.

Tongue soaks fabric as he works nipple into hardness. Forehead rests against her pounding heart as fingers easily slip buttons from holes. She goes to pull free tie, shirt open, as he strips away her top. His touch breezes the fabric of her bra, then tears it down. His breath hitches.

“Kiss me,” she half-orders, fingers curling up into his hair.

He growls to obey as she works shirt from him, bra from herself. Arms pull her close as the kiss devolves into a feverish desire to connect, to become one. The same breath, same moan, passes between them, stoking their desire into an inferno. Hands go to her ass, carry her from chair to bed, and in the brief moment their lips break Thomas strips her bare.

The storm lights her up, flashes his shadow across her form, as Ellie slides hand between thighs. Her fingers find clit, encircle and brush as she looks up at the dark silhouette panting before her. There’s a raw burn to her cut as she stretches it out to slip two fingers inside wet cunt; she groans with him, with the thunder.

Knees hit carpet, strong hand gathers and holds both hers to stomach. The other cups her sex as if claiming - thumb pressing into clit, working it circles, until she cries with the wind. Thomas’ lips brush semi-colon butterfly and faint lines at the inside of her thighs; she arches into his fingers as they enter. Teeth graze, bite until she gasps, and tongue replaces thumb.

Ellie curses like thunder, rolls hips as her body shudders against his mouth, around his fingers. “Ta-Ta-Thom…”

Once tantalizingly slow fingers speed up, curl, as tongue collects the honey leaking around them. The groan is ravenously low, like a lustful monster’s, and Ellie’s toes curl at the sound. He releases wrists to attend to her clit; nails dig into his scalp as she howls.

Her body rattles out a flooding orgasm; but rather than satisfy it only feeds into the desire. Ellie braces on hands, shudders breath as eyes catch Thomas lapping up her arousal, easing fingers out and licking them clean. Their gaze locks, burrows into one another, as he stands. She refuses to look away as she tears into leather belt and cloth. Their eyes share the lightening as she takes his cock in hand, in mouth, tastes the present, the future, from his tip.

…This is a moment she wants to remember, this a moment she wants to get lost in…

It’s his turn to shudder, to groan, to feel himself slipping in and out of the storm. The wetness of her lips, the fast swirl of her tongue, the greedy, gasping, groan she makes each time she comes off and goes back down. He throbs, twitches, against her cheeks… “…Fuck…”

She pops off with a wet suck, swallowing down the first drops of pre-cum, and leads him by the dick across the bed, across her body as she falls back. They whimper as their tastes mix, tongues meeting before lips crash together. Her legs bend, cradle, as his hand joins hers to guide him inside.

All breath stops. Ellie flutters around him, Thomas swells. Something beyond them screams this is home. Destiny. Their destiny, for better or worse. The storm slows in its eye, the two watch each other. She smiles softly, he smiles back. Her hand roams, fingers skim his lower back, as legs wrap. He takes hold of the other, second hand running fingers through her hair as he braces.

“You all right?”

She nods, tightens -“Don’t stop.”- kisses.

Thomas’ first moves are slow, he doesn’t want to leave her. Her wet warmth, the way she clings from the inside out. He needs it as much as her now. He stays deep, thrusts short, as his lips indulge in hers before going to search for more.

The past fades into the wind as it picks up again; rain hammers away memories and Ellie arches into the bliss of forgetfulness. Fingers dance up Thomas’ spine so he groans over breast, then clutch shoulder as he pulls out farther to drive back in with the returning thunder.

He tightens hold on her hand, turns lips along the angry red line of her cut. Her fingers twitch, nails curl into his hand. - _No, not there…but yes, right there_ \- It’s like being exposed and sewed up at once. He sees her the way no one else can; he can see her ghosts. He acknowledges them with each press of his lips and the terror of it exhilarates as she lets them go.

“More…” ankles lock in as she feels his length slipping away for a thrust. She presses up, moans in aroused relief, as he returns. “Harder.”

Thrusts turn shallow again, hips snap and jolt them on the bed, and he growls as he shifts to close all space. To blanket her, to hold both hands up over the side of the bed as face buries into her neck. Lips nip earlobe, tongue collects sweat and tears, and teeth go just shy of marking as they catch flesh of neck and shoulder. Thomas can feel her tightening again and burrows, grinds, until he can feel her racing heart everywhere.

"Let go.” His voice’s the calm in her storm, a storm she releases once more on him.

His hands grip, body pins, as he let’s go with her. Fast, hard, short, thrusts drive cock farther into her, make them all the more a part of each other as her cunt milks him. She bows, he bends. Both shudder a cry; both attempt to breathe each other’s name over and over.

Neither move as bodies release and relax into the night’s raging storm.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m choosing to stop there as much for cliffhanger feels as for the fact I don’t want to give too much up front, ha! ;-)


End file.
